Erica's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

Erica made it back inside the cottage, but the shed win did not last. By afternoon her skin burned. She lay on the bathroom floor and shook. The Pomeranian pressed close, warm against her side. When she tried to stand, her stomach heaved her back down. She could not cross the room, let alone reach the phone across the cottage. Then a knock came, weak, on the front door. Erica dragged herself to it. Malia leaned on the frame, one of Lydia's pack, a brown-haired girl who ran the woods on four legs during the full moon and walked on two the rest of the time. Now she was gray-faced and folded over her own belly. "I came to help feed them," Malia said. "But I can't stop throwing up either." She sank onto the step. Erica understood then. This was not just her. The moon had dropped, the pack had turned back to girls, and the same sick stomach hit them all. Lydia in the hospital. Malia here. Her. She pulled out her phone and dialed Lydia. It rang a long time. When Lydia finally answered, her voice was thin. "I can't get out of bed," Lydia said flatly. "I can't help you today. Don't argue." Then she was gone. Three of them down. Erica could not drive to town. She could not walk to the shed again. And the town hunters shot any wolf they found. If no human stood guard, the pack was one open gate away from dead. She thought of Deacon. Their emissary. A kind-eyed man who knew what they were and never feared it. He lived beyond the trees. No phone. But Erica was a werewolf, even if her guts didn't care. She crawled out into the flowered garden with Malia watching. She tipped her head back. Her stomach clenched, but she pulled a breath deep and let it out as a howl. It came thin and cracked, half a whimper. She tried again. The second was stronger. The Pomeranian lifted its small nose and howled with her, a high yip that carried. They waited. Erica's arms gave out. She lay in the flowers with Malia's cold hand in hers. Minutes later, footsteps came through the trees. Deacon walked into the garden, sandals in the grass, a jug of something pale in one hand. He crouched between the two sick girls. "I heard you," he said. "Ginger and salt water. Small sips. You'll keep it down." He looked at the shed. "I'll feed and water the pack. Every day this week. You rest." Erica let go of the fear she'd carried since morning. The wolves would live. She swallowed a sip and it stayed. But Deacon frowned as he stood. "Six wolves, one shed, right beside a town that kills them," he said. "That won't hold much longer. We need to move them somewhere the hunters can't reach."